


Rubble and Coffee Grounds

by Wintress



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Barista!Bucky, Fluff, Gen, M/M, Steve Rogers and the 21st Century, Steve is not having a good time right now, The Avengers - Freeform, sassy Bucky
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-17
Updated: 2019-06-17
Packaged: 2020-03-07 13:07:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,661
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18873805
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wintress/pseuds/Wintress
Summary: It's only been a few weeks since Steve came out of the ice, yet he has already had to come to grips with the fact he's almost 70 years in the future while dealing with the Chitauri invasion of New York. Now the dust is settling, he's slipped out from under the watchful eye of S.H.I.E.L.D. and from under the pitying gazes of this new team called The Avengers. He just wants some peace, some quiet, and some goddamn coffee.Lucky for him, he finds all that and more.





	Rubble and Coffee Grounds

**Author's Note:**

  * For [surfaces](https://archiveofourown.org/users/surfaces/gifts).



> Sooo...continuing my track record of starting a little one shot and ending up with a monster, here's a little something to soothe the soul. God knows we all need some fluff right now!

"Hello? Are you ready to order yet?"

Steve is grateful for the years of training that ensure he doesn't jump three feet in the air like a startled kitten when he's dragged from his thoughts. Well, not thoughts as such - he's been drawing constant comparisons of the New York he remembers from 1943 to the city he faces now, and what was once a courtyard that held a market on a Friday where his mother would take him so she could barter for fabric to make curtains and a new dress with once in a blue moon, was now an open street with endless quirky cafes and pop-up shops and coffee shops with clever names.  
Like the one he's in now.

"Look mister, if you're not going to order I'm going to have to ask you to step aside, you're holding up the line."

Oops.

This time Steve does startle, and the tiny counter girl with a messy bun he suspects has been artfully styled to look like a knotted blonde heap atop her head eyes him wearily. That is the face of a girl who deals with too many weirdos on a daily basis for too little pay to care all that much, and Steve is currently doing nothing to dissuade her of believing he is one of them. He glances behind him to see restless queue of grumpy would-be patrons impatient to buy their morning coffee, being held up by some big dumb blond guy who can't even string a sentence together. When he turn back to the counter girl her expression is even colder and he opens and closes his mouth a few times before he finds his tongue.

"I - uh, sorry miss. Excuse me." He ducks his head and turns heel to stride out of the coffee place (cheerfully titled "Zola's Mean Beans") and takes a shaky breath to ground himself as soon as the door shuts behind him. Wooden blinds strung up the back of the door rattle loudly against the glass, and to Steve it sounds too similar to the horrible chittering noise the Chitauri made: he takes that as a sign and walks as fast across the street as his long legs can carry him. It doesn't help that he has to dodge a pile of rubble in the middle of the road, or that a large clean up crew are operating so loudly from the junction of the closed street that he can hear them all the way down here.  
Steve can feel himself growing more agitated and flustered; he slipped out of the Tower first thing this morning to get away from the constant cycle of news and chatter about the Chitauri invasion, looking for somewhere no one would stop him to rehash the fight and fear yet again.

Steve doesn't want to be clapped on the back by strangers in SHIELD uniforms congratulating him for killing a bunch of aliens. He doesn't want to sit holed up in a stuffy meeting room with Nick Fury and his 'Avengers' to discuss endless ideas and tactics for the future when he hasn't even come to terms with his present. He certainly doesn't want to wander the streets now after every step reminds him of the utter carnage and city-wide destruction that is as much their doing as it is the invaders, and on second thought he regrets even sneaking out in the first place. But he's here, in the middle of 21st century New York City, and he just wants some fucking coffee.

Steve catches a glimpse of a blue arm, dismembered and crushed beneath the fallen sign of what seems to be a donut shop ("Every Hole's A Goal!") and he bolts into the nearest building before he can acknowledge the twist of nausea it sends through his stomach. Or the name of the business apparently, because it takes a couple of seconds before be realised he's in another coffee shop. Thank heaven for little miracles.

This one is smaller than the first, and - mercifully - quieter. There are maybe four people scattered throughout the place, seated at little round tables with cushioned chairs while unfamiliar upbeat music plays in the background. A woman is singing about putting a ring on it as Steve makes his way to the counter (put a ring on what, exactly? Is that meant to be a euphemism? Probably, Steve tells himself. Songs are so lewd these days) where he sees the menu and stops suddenly in the middle of the room. Above the polished dark wood countertop is a large sage green board nailed to the wall, and it is filled with a list of close to fifty items written in a neat, swooping font. Donuts and pastries and sweets and cold drinks and hot drinks and holy shit, what is an extra large Hersheys frappe and what does it do?

He can feel himself tuning out as he tries to make sense of the board and its items, clenching his fists in frustration and mild panic and becoming more and more annoyed with his reaction to it. He fought an intergalactic army not even a week ago, he beat Hydra, hes saved the world twice in his life time - he is Captain fucking America, he should be able to order himself lunch. The staff here don't know that. Hell, part of the reason he snuck out was because Pepper handed him a schedule of TV appearances she had planned for him and the idea of doing PR unmasked was unnervingly similar to his stint as a dancing monkey for the US government. He just want some semblance of anonymity for a while, some time to himself before his face is known the world over. He knows the history books only have photos of him with his cowl on, he wants to take advantage of melting into the background while it lasts. He rationalises they won't connect the videos of Captain America swinging his shield circulating all major news outlets with Steve Rogers standing before them, trying to make himself as small as possible. Of course they won't recognise him, he tells himself.

Steve jolts for the third time that day when the man behind the counter interrupts the endless chattering in his head and brings him crashing back to reality.

"Having a little trouble there, buddy?"

Steve searches the man's face for the telltale signs of recognition, but there's nothing. Not a widened eye nor a twist of lips. In fact, the man's eyes (blue, so blue they're almost grey) look like they're normally so wide and bright, and his full lips remain decidedly untwisted. He doesn't look like he knows who he is, so Steve lets himself relax a little and let out that breath he hadn't realised he'd been holding.  
He only knows hes been staring for too long when the man raises his eyebrow and starts making fluid motions with his hands.

"Are you deaf?" The man says, overpronouncing each word and punctuating them with quirks of his fingers and flicks of his wrists.

"What? No, I'm not deaf!" Steve bristles. The man lets his hands fall to his sides and shrugs one shoulder.

"Sorry, thought I'd sign just in case."

"Well I can hear just fine." Steve says, embarrassed. "I'm trying to decide what to have."

"You look a little lost there. First time ordering from an artisanal coffee emporium?"

"Is it that obvious?" Steve can't even muster a self-deprecating smile. Instead of sounding glibe he just comes across as pathetic, and hes kicking himself internally.

" 'Fraid so. Take your time, no pressure." The man gestures to himself with a dish rag and affects an air of grandiosity. "Any questions, just ask your friendly neighborhood master brewer."

Steve says nothing, simply nodding and looking back to the board. A few minutes pass. Then a few more. Two customers come in so he stands to the side, and they chat with the barista about the Battle and the state the City has been left in. He hears one of them bring up Captain America and he turns inconspicuously away from them; it's taking everything he's got to focus on the board instead of turning tail and fleeing his second coffee shop of the day. It doesn't work. Hes hopelessly confused and his jaw is setting in frustration. The barista however, doesn't rush him. He busies himself clattering dishes and collecting stray glass mugs from around the shop, wiping tables with his cloth as he goes. He even hums a few bars of song every so often as he goes in a rough baritone. When he's back behind the counter and putting away the last dish in the tiny washer in the corner, Steve finally gives in and steps up.

"Did you decide what you want then, pal?" The barista says with easy familiarity. Steve falters: what does he want? He wants his old life back, his old city. He wants solace. He wants to walk around without that tightness in his chest that has nothing to do with the asthma his super serum cured him of. He wants to forget himself for just a few hours. He wants -

He wants so many things that seem selfish and trivial. He doesn't say any of this out loud, though. Instead Steve says helplessly: "What's a Hersheys frappe?"

It's almost as though the man seen this coming. "A hideous concoction of choco sauce, milk, candy, and ice cream. Barely a sniff of coffee. It's delicious."

"Ah. Yeah, no thanks. Do you sell...just, y'know. Coffee?"

"That's called a flat white," the barista explains, flopping his cloth over the shoulder of his black uniform.

"Why not just call it coffee?" Steve scrubs his face and sighs. He doesn't want to be short tempered with the barista, not when hes the first person to really give him a  
space and kindness since... well, since World War 2. He shakes the thought out of his head before it can take hold and run away with his mind. "With all the names and the flavours and the... I dunno, maybe I should have just stayed home."

"Hey now, don't be like that," the barista holds a hand up to wave toward the large bay windows. "If you went home now you'd miss the wonderful sights our grand emporium has to offer!"

Steve looks over: one of them is boarded up with a large piece of plywood, no doubt destroyed in the Battle, and through the cracked glass of another he can see the large yellow clean up crew lorry rolling slowly past ("Damage Control: you break em, we sweep em!").

 "Yeah," he says. "The sights." He turns back to see the man's face twisted in something familiar. Not sympathy, empathy. Steve realises he's coming across as rude and surly, and rubs the back of his neck with a little sigh. "Sorry. It's kind of been a long week." More like it's been a long 70 years, not that he can really say so.

"I feel you on that. I thought I was gonna turn up for work after the invasion and find nothing but a hole in the ground. Imagine my delight to find the worst damage we took was a burst pipe and a broken window," the man deadpans. "I should be so lucky."

Steve can feel himself smiling despite himself. "I would've thought a 'master brewer' such as yourself would be devastated at the idea of a coffee emporium being reduced to a pile of rubble?" That earns him a pointed finger and a cheeky grin from the barista.

"Hey, that's Mr Master Brewer to you! My friends call me Bucky. And my customers, when they eventually order."

"Really? Bucky?"

"Don't ask, long story. And you are...."

"Steve." It slips out before he can stop himself, and he barely contains a grimace at his mistake.

He turns back to the counter to see the man leaning over the worktop conspiratorially, a glint in his eye and a smile squirming up one corner of his mouth, and he beckons Steve closer.

"Nice to meet you, Steve. You seem like the kind of guy who's not afraid to voice his opinion," Bucky says in a low voice so his other customers can't hear. Steve nods, wondering where he's going with this. "Truth be told, I got a lot of drinks that people ain't willing to take a chance on. How about you try them so I can write up some unbiased reviews on our social media, and in return you get your coffee fix for free?"

Steve has only had the bare minimum crash course in what he's missed since he came out the ice, and if he's honest he still doesn't really understand what the point in social media is... but the idea of free coffee in return for telling this Bucky fella what he thinks of it sounds more than fair. Plus it keeps him out of the tower and - hopefully - out of trouble. There are worse ways he could spend what is possibly his last free day, and it's still only early morning. And if he happens to glance up every so often so he can watch whatever the pretty barista is doing when no one else is looking, well, then that's just an added bonus.

Fuck it.

"Sure, why not," Steve says. Bucky actually claps his hands with glee and gestures to a table tucked beside the counter; out of immediate sight of the patrons, hidden from the view from the unbroken window behind a tall spider plant (making it prime people watching territory), and right beside a bookshelf of crumpled second-hand paperback mystery books. Perfect for the modern super-soldier looking to drink a tank-load of coffee in peace.

Bucky busies himself right away with making the first drink, clattering bottles and thunking a metal measuring cup against the rim of the percolator. There's a sudden hissing noise that makes Steve whip round so hard he almost knocks his baseball cap askew, but it turns out to be some attachment on the long red coffee machine that is steaming a fat steel jug of milk. Bucky catches him peeking over the counter from his seat by the plant and shoots him a wink.

"Patience, young grasshopper." He smirks, and Steve snorts in reply, turning back to hide the slight blush colouring the top of his cheeks. He must look like a mess, jumping and freaking over nothing. He distracts himself while he waits by people-watching; though there are only a few customers in the shop, Steve hasn't had the chance to have a proper gawk at the strange fashions of today. Instead of shoes people seem to favour sneakers, and pretty much everyone in the vicinity is wearing blue jeans which makes him feel out of place in his neat pressed brown slacks. Posture doesn't seem to be as important in 2012. Nor does modesty. In fact, there's a lot more variety these days of styles and colours and - well, everything. The girl nearest the door is actually sporting a head of close cropped hair, but what really catches Steve's attention is the large tattoo spreading from her temple to behind her ear. He's only ever seen them on sailors and the like before going into the ice, but in the short while he's been awake it seems like almost everyone hes encountered is tattooed. Hell, even prim and reserved Pepper has a tiny butterfly that peeks from the shoulder of those sleek, sleeveless sheath dresses she wears.

Steve wonders vaguely if that's the reason Bucky has donned that long sleeved Henley shirt beneath his apron; maybe while they're generally accepted in society these days they're still not appropriate for the workplace? Steve cranes his neck over the counter to see if he can catch a glimpse of the barista, but Bucky has his back turned to him as he clinks and clatters around the counter. Next thing Steve knows, Bucky is presenting him with a slate slab, four glasses balancing on top of it. No, not glasses - these things look like measuring beakers that wouldn't be out of place in Howard Stark's lab. One is half filled with frothy milk, one with hot water, another with coffee so dark and rich the acrid scent of it practically burns Steve's nostrils, and the last is empty. Bucky sets the slate down in front of him and flicks his dishcloth over his shoulder, dislodging a lock of hair as dark as the coffee before him from the thick bun at the base of his neck.

A few seconds tick by as Steve tries to take in what's in front of him. Bucky folds his arms, then unfolds them, then tucks the stray lock of hair behind his ear.

"Well?" Bucky breaks the silence.

"Well what?" Steve replied, perplexed. "Is that it?"

"Seriously?!" Bucky says in a slightly strangled voice as he waves a hand at the strange ensemble of glasses. "That right there is dark roasted Kona coffee beans, hand picked from volcanic soil in Hawaii and expertly roasted over 21 days. And that isn't just water, its crystal clear run off from an iceberg off the coast of Alaska. And this is milk from saffron-fed cows raised on a Hindu farm in the UK. Theyre poured carefully into handblown glass mugs I had specially made just for this deconstructed latte. Yet you ask 'is that it'. Is that -  _yes_ , that's it!"

Steve is genuinely lost for words for a few seconds. He understands roughly 20% of what Bucky just said. "Deconstructed?" He says lamely.

"Yeah."

"But why?"

Bucky scoffs in frustration. "So you gain a finer appreciation for the individual ingredients that go into making the drink."

"Ah. Of course. Stupid me. So... what now?"

"You drink it." Bucky is looking less smug and more sheepish as the seconds tick by; Steve thinks he rather enjoys making him squirm. So, being the little shit he is, Steve decides to mess with him a little more.

"One by one?" Steve goes to drink the milk straight and Bucky almost knocks it out his hand.

"No! No no, you construct it yourself."

"I have to mix it all together?"

"Uh-huh."

"Why didn't you say so?" Steve huffs. He pours the milk into the coffee beaker, and Bucky lets out a yelp so loud the rest of the customers start staring.

"Oh my god, _no_! That's not how you do it! You'll ruin the-"

"Well how am I supposed to know?! I ain't a barista!" Steve jabs irritably. Bucks mouth snaps shut as realisation dawns on his face, like an egg has been cracked on his head and is slowly trickling down.

".... You're right. You're absolutely right, this is fucking ridiculous." His expression brightens and he pours the rest of the beakers contents into one the way - Steve supposes - it should be done, pushing the swirling mix toward him. "There, now it's constructed - how does it taste?"

"Oh, I can't drink that."

"Huh?" Buckys face falls as he looks between the coffee and Steve, who's rubbing the back of his neck. "Why not?"

"Oh, I'm lactose intolerant." Steve says. Really, what he means is that he was before the serum, but the reminder of how painful shitting his guts out after sneaking milkshake as a teen has been enough to dissuade him from testing if his allergy is cured or not. But he can hardly tell Bucky that. "I was gonna say when you mentioned the Hindu cows but you were kind of on a roll and I didn't want to interrupt your nerdy little rant about coffee."

 Bucky's face goes blank. For a split second Steve is worried hes royally pissed him off, until he cracks up with laughter so loud that the girl with the shaved head almost drops her book in fright.

"Lactose - fucking hell, you're a real piece of work!" Bucky cackles. He smacks Steve's shoulder playfully and scoops up the slate, balancing it perfectly. "You could have just said so, punk. We stock every dairy replacement known to man!"

"Ah, guess I'm lucky I picked your grand coffee emporium then," Steve smiles despite himself, and Bucky's grin widens.

"I guess you are."

 

*

 

Continuing his theme of being honest with himself, Steve has to admit that the coffee in here is pretty good. Bucky's creations are camp and bizarre, but even the weirdest concoctions he's sat down in front of Steve have turned out to be delicious. Steve finally feels himself relax, that knot in his stomach that's been there since he realised he didn't wake up in 1945 isn't quite gone, but it's definitely less taut. He's content to thumb lazily through one of the awful paperbacks beside him ("Then She Was Gone") and let the sounds of coffee brewing and idle chatter melt with the low pop music and wash over him. He's just finishing his fourth drink, a dubiously titled "Fruity Firecracker Mocha" (chilli and dark chocolate mixed with espresso, topped with mango coulee and vegan whipped cream) when Bucky offers him a notepad to scribble down his thoughts.

"I have my own," Steve digs out the tiny spiralbound he keeps tucked in his back pocket.

"Huh, and here I was thinking you couldn't fit anything more in those pants of yours." Bucky smirks, and there's no way he doesn't notice the way the tops of Steve's ears flush cherry red. He sis becoming more and more attracted to the barista by the minute, but he was never a guy for flirting even after the serum. He still trips over what he wants to say and even then he doesn't know if Bucky is seriously flirting or if that's just the way he is with people, the way Dum Dum used to be.

"What's it for? To-do list?"

He could tell him. He could lay it all down for him right here and now, casual as you like and say "No, this is my list of things to catch up on. You know, pop culture, music, world events, presidents, anything important I might have missed over the last three quarters of a century. Not that I need this list when I have photographic memory thanks to an experimental serum that turned me into a super soldier. Oh, did I mention that I'm actually Captain America and even though you're about seventy years my junior I find you insanely attractive?"

He could.

He doesn't.

"Something like that," Steve says instead.

He flicks to the next open page, next to a hastily scribbled list of TV shows provided to him by one champion bingewatcher Clint Barton. Bucky hands him a pen from his apron pocket and peers over Steve's shoulder as he writes.

"So I'll write the name of the drink, what my pros and cons were, and what I'd rate it out of five followed by my thoughts on it."

"Sounds fair to me. Hey, is this a list of things you haven't watched yet?" Bucky points and Steve barely resists the urge to cover the page with a large hand.

"...Yes?"

"Are you kidding me - how have you made it through your lifetime without seeing Golden Girls?! What kind of childhood did you have?" He sputters in mock affront.

"I, uh... we didn't have a television growing up. Poor neighborhood." In the Great Depression when half the people Steve knew didn't even have a toilet indoors or electricity.

"Shit man, I thought my childhood was rough," Bucky jokes, pulling up the chair opposite Steve. "I had my trusty old VHS combi in my room though, that was enough for me. TV and Sega saw me through to my teens, and the Blockbuster on the corner."

"It wasnt all bad, I kept myself amused." Steve won't even go into how he doesn'tknow what most the things Bucky just said are. His teaspoon makes a delicate squeak as he scrapes the last of the mango and chocolate sauce from the bottom of his glass cup.

"How? More of a sports guy?" Bucky asks. Steve pauses: this man is possibly the first person who is taking an interest solely in him and not his alter ego since he woke up. Hes genuine and open, and is making conversation easy for him. He can't quite remember the last time that happened. It feels nice to be listened to.

He realises he's zoned out again and rushes to answer. "Art! I liked - I like art. Drawing. Pencils, mostly. Charcoal if I'm feeling fancy."

"Never would have tagged you as an artist," Buckys smile isn't mocking, it's gentle. Pleasantly surprised and quirking up at one side. Steve decides he rather likes that smile.

"Most don't," he shrugs. "I'm full of surprises."

"You aren't half," Bucky agrees. Two men have entered the shop and are bickering as they reach the counter. Steve can catch snatches of hissed insults from the lithe red headed man, while his tall dark friend is growling rebuttals and shooting him daggers from narrowed eyes.

"Uh...what about you? What's your thing?"

"Well I haven't exactly moved on from daytime television and videogames," Bucky lifts Steve's tray, getting up to saunter back behind the counter and serve the arguing men. "Except the screens are bigger and I can do more than lock the butler in the freezer."

"Lock the - what?"

Any answer Bucky would have had for him is swallowed by a sudden roar of indignation from the tall man at the counter, and the answering yell from his red-head friend; their argument is verging on a fist fight, over aliens of all things. Steve catches Bucky's eye from where he's waiting patiently behind the counter and twists his face in sympathy. He presses his lips together in a barely-supressed smirk and clears his throat, stopping the two in their tracks.

 "Hate to break this...whatever it is up, but you don't get free boxing gloves with your coffees. Ready to order?" The men have the good grace to look embarrassed, though the redhead keeps his sharp chin lifted defiantly in spite of his reddening cheeks. Steve shakes his head, smiling to himself as he busies himself with rating his latest coffee.

 

*

 

 His shitty paperback is strangely engrossing, and hes almost a quarter of the way through already when Bucky slides a new glass across from him sometime in the early afternoon. It's tall, with a tiny handle, and full of what looks like thick milk.

 "I don't have to assemble this one myself?" Steve grins.

 "Nope, not this one. But..." Bucky produces a can of whipped cream and a shaker from his apron pocket, swirls a huge pile of bright pink cream on top of the drink and then sprinkles a liberal amount of holographic glitter all over it. To Steve's amazement the cream turns the 'milk' a pale lavender colour, and the shade deepens as it sinks to the bottom of the glass before his very eyes. "Voila!"

 "What the fuck?!" Steve cries out, horrified at the noxious looking concoction before him, and an older gentleman approaching the counter almost jumps out his skin. "I can't drink that, it's sparkly!"

 "This is a unicorn latte. Unicorns love sparkles." Bucky says as though it should be obvious.

 "Oh. Of course." Steve deadpans, spinning the tall glass around then wrinkling his nose. "Bucky... it's gone luminous purple."

 "I know, I can't quite get a pastel shade without making it taste like shit."

 "It's... it's purple." Steve says again.

 "Duh. Unicorns love purple. Enjoy!" Bucky waves him off and goes to serve the elderly man, while Steve takes a tentative sip. He hates to admit it, but it's actually pretty good. 

The future is unicorn lattes, he thinks to himself. 

 

*

 

He has to stop finding excuses to talk to Bucky. The poor guy is just trying to work, and Steve has already been there for a few hours taking up space other customers could be sitting in, but he can't bring himself to leave. He's sank roughly six coffees and two cold drinks (including the infamous Hersheys frappe, and Bucky is right it  _is_ delicious) yet Bucky hasn't even hinted at Steve leaving. He scrubs at his face, places his cap firmly on his head and resigns himself to thanking Bucky for his hospitality but insisting on not imposing on him any -

 "Where you going?" Bucky is leaning against the counter watching him. Steve resolutely decides to ignore the way his jeans stretch across his thighs, and how his shirt is tucked up at his hip showing a sliver of skin. Nope, not paying attention, no sir, not him.

 "I, uh... I've taken advantage of your kindness enough. I don't want to be a bother."

  Bucky rolls his eyes and comes out in front, ushering Steve back to his seat. "I told you, you're doing me a favour here. Symbiotic relationship Steve, it's a thing." He pauses, before continuing sincerely. "If you wanted to leave then feel free, I wont stop you. I kind of got the feeling you need this space more than I need the reviews though. You're not imposing, I promise."

 "Are you sure?" Steve asks. "If I'm in the way at all -"

 "Then I'll be the first to tell you," Bucky insists. Steve sits down, a rush of gratitude flooding through him. "Besides, it's a steady day. I'm busier than I thought I'd be after the attack."

 "Funny, I was just thinking how you can't keep New Yorkers from their coffee," Steve has to let him get back to work...but he can't bring himself to stop talking.

 "Yep, so don't worry about getting underfoot. I'm ticking over here. Not that you're easy to ignore by any stretch of the imagination." Bucky says it innocently enough, but it sends a little thrill through Steve all the same.

 That shuts him up.

 

*

 

 Steve doesn't get to talk to Bucky again for the rest of the hour. There's a flurry of customers to the point the line almost reaches the door, yet he still manages to find the time to singlehandedly brew more strange drinks to slide across the table to Steve before he flits back behind the counter, always with a smile. By the time the queue dies down it's gone 3pm, and Steve is the only other person in the room. Bucky is helping his last customer to the door, a tiny old Irish lady in a head scarf and embroidered slippers, and Steve cant help but grin at them.

"Now, are you sure you don't want me to help you up to your apartment with this Mrs McGougan?"

 "I'm perfectly capable of managing a cuppa. My granddaughter is just outside anyhow. I do all my own shopping, you know."

 "I know ma'am, you put us all to shame."

 "Thank you James. When will you let me introduce you to her? You're such a nice boy, you should have your pick of girls."

 "Aw I appreciate the thought ma'am, the store keeps me busy though."

 "Too busy to go dancing?"

 "I'm a man in demand, Mrs McGougan."

 "I'll bet you are son." Bucky holds the door open and true to her word, she grips her coffee cup with barely a tremble and totters out to a tall woman with a sharp black haircut and thick sunglasses. He gives them a wave and shuts the door, locks it, and slumps against it with an exaggerated huff.

 "Man is  _she_ barking up the wrong tree." He flicks the sign to 'CLOSED' and marches back to the counter. 

 "What, you can't dance?" Steve teases.

 "Actually I'm a fucking _great_ dancer, just not with women." Bucky shoots back with a smirk. He slips through to the back room, unaware of the bolt of lightning that has just hit Steve and is currently frying his brain with a tsunami of thoughts, all falling over one another to be heard first. _okay so he has basically just given you the go ahead - wait, has he? don't let this go_ _, you have a chance - oh shit this could happen - pepper said that it's not a big deal now - what if he - you should - what do I even say - oh my GOD -_

 Bucky comes back out, humming while he makes himself a coffee and adds a few pastries to his plate. After a moment of consideration he adds one more, a huge chocolate choux oozing cream, and plonks himself in the seat opposite Steve... who is sitting up cramped straight and staring at his notebook with wide, unfocused blue eyes. 

 "Your drinks's not  _that_ bad, surely?" He jokes, stopping short when Steve's pen shatters into a million pieces. They both stare at his fist, sprinkled with shards of black plastic. Eventually Bucky looks up, saying hesitantly: "What'd the pen ever do to you?"

 " _Ha_ \- um, nothing, sorry - lost in thought, is all." Steve forces out, and he hurries to sweep the shards into a neat pile while inwardly cursing himself. "Dont know my own strength sometimes."

 "I'll say," Bucky grins. He softens. "Look, I couldn't help but notice you seemed a bit dazed when you came in. I hope you don't mind me saying, but this week's been... a  _lot_ for people. Aliens came out of the sky and destroyed the city, a literal god flew through the air, people died... I wouldn't blame you if you really just wanted some time alone and you're just humouring me out of politeness -"

 "What?"

 " - Like, if you wanted to be left alone I won't be offended, I'll still keep the store closed but I'll eat through the back room -"

 "No! No, not at all!" Steve almost squeaked. "Bucky, seriously, it's fine, I... yeah. It has been a hell of a week, I won't lie. But you're a good distraction from it. I'm just not used to being around normal people, I guess. I'm trying." He cant get any more honest than that without being explicit about his identity. Bucky smiles gently at him, shrugging and tucking into a maple twist. 

 "I get it. I was the same when I left the army. I couldn't sleep so I'd get up at all hours, wander around 24-hour convenience stores, wait outside bars just to hear how normal people speak. I'm guessing you've not been out long?"

 "Less than two weeks." Steve sighed, feeling the tension slowly drain from him as he sipped on his drink (a beetroot and berry cooler fantastically titled "BeetBerry Burst"). "I'm technically still in."

 "Feels like you'll never find your feet again." Bucky said. Steve nodded, and as Bucky talked he started to roll up his left sleeve; instead of an arm full of tattoos, to Steve's shock he revealed a prosthetic hand and arm, and above his elbow where it ended was skin mottled and gnarled, raised in painful looking twisted and pitted scars. "Got too close to an IUD trying to pick up intel. Still got some shrapnel in there. Once they amputated, i spent a couple months feeling sorry for myself. Then the medical discharge came through, and I came home and...everything felt like it was different. It felt like the world would never be the same again."

 "God, Bucky..." Steve couldn't find the words. "What did you do?"

 "At first, nothing. I ignored any calls from my old unit, trashed letters telling me to sign up for therapy. I even tore up my vet's discount card. I didn't want anything from them, wanted to prove I could do it all on my own. Sound familiar?" He didn't look sad when he recounted it all to Steve, in fact his lips were still curled up in a ghost of a crooked smile, raising an eyebrow meaningfully at him.

 "A little," Steve admitted bashfully, taking another sip. 

 "I didn't leave the house unless I really needed to. Totally isolated myself, which was no good. Stopped taking care of myself because I didn't see the point any more. Persuaded my mom and sister to get my groceries while I spent all day playing video games and vegetating. I was so angry and lost. Was in a real bad way." Bucky dipped another pastry into his coffee, and Steve waited patiently while he wiped his face and hands of crumbs. He made no move to roll his sleeve back down. "But...I woke up one day and thought, I'm sick of living like this. I cant go on being angry at the world and my situation. I've got the power to change it so I should."

 "And then?" Steve said, rapt.

 "I did." Bucky said simply. "I made myself shower and brush my teeth for the first time in...longer than I'd like to admit. And I made myself eat something that wasnt cup ramen. And little by little it got easier to take care of myself. Signed up to the VA, started therapy, got back in touch with friends. Little by little I found the joy in things again. Even scored myself this fancy prosthesis through the Stark Programme."

 Bucky holds up his arm and demonstrates how deftly he can twist his wrist and wiggle his fingers, and honestly if it weren't for for scarring above it Steve would never have guessed it was prosthetic. He's finding a new respect for Tony, he thought he was just in weapons distribution like it says in the file from S.H.I.E.L.D.

 "It's all about finding purpose for yourself, no matter how small. Whether you're setting goals like "I'm gonna leave the house for an hour today" or I'm gonna apply for a job", as long as you try that's what matters."

 "So that's how you opened up this place," Steve propped up his elbow and cupped his chin, enamored. It's like Bucky is baring his soul, so matter-of-fact, as though recovery is the easiest thing in the world. He makes it seem that way, like it's within Steve's grasp. It's enough to give him hope.

 "Yep. This was what I really wanted to do, and every little thing I've done along the way has worked toward me owning the shop." Bucky starts fiddling with that loose lock of hair again, and Steve is entranced by his movements. He can't bring himself to stop staring. "I won't pretend it's been easy. The past ten years have been the most challenging of my whole life, and I wont ever forget that. This wasn't some overnight miracle." He gestures to the quaint little shop behind him, looking back at Steve with a small furrow between his brows. "And more importantly, I didn't do it alone. _You_ don't have to get by on your own."

 "I know." Steve ducks his gaze, squirming a little. These home truths were hitting a little too close to a nerve. "I just... I should be able to, you know? There's so much expected of me. A title that ... it sometimes feels bigger than I am. I've faced so much. Been through more than I could explain in one afternoon. I feel like a let down because facing tomorrow just seems like more than I can bare."

 "I totally understand. It's the most difficult thing in the world, being stuck and feeling like you can get out. You can. But we all need help sometimes, and that's nothing to be ashamed of."

 Steve thinks then of the Avengers. Of Nat with her wry smiles and how her eyes can say so much when she say so little. Of Tony, looking every bit like his father but clearly aiming to be better. Of Clint and his easy embraces and sarcastic jokes. Of Bruce, timid and afraid of himself but putting so much trust into these people when he has no reason to. Of Thor, a literal god among men, fighting creatures for a planet he owes no loyalty to, but because it's the right thing to do. Fury with his riteous ideas and secrets. Pepper with her no-nonsense, simple approach to life and friendship. Coulson... oh, Coulson.

 They could be friends. They could be there. If he let them.

 "You've gotta learn to be gentle to yourself, Steve. Let yourself have nice things." Bucky says quietly. His hands are clasped in front of him, and on a whim Steve reaches forward and rests his own atop them. He panics when Bucky looks up, but he just grins and huffs a little laugh. "See? Baby steps. Find the things you like. Enjoy them. Let other people help you when you need it. It's hard but worth it. I promise."

 "You're pretty wise for someone so young," Steve smiles. Bucky squeezes his hand back, and they lock eyes for a long second.

 The moment is broken when Bucky, still keeping Steve's gaze, shoves the huge choux bun into his mouth, cream and all, and Steve bursts into peals of laughter at how ridiculous he is. 

 "I'm full of wisdom me," he garbles with his mouth full, and Steve can't stop snickering. His shoulders are shaking and he can't remember laughing this much in a long, long time. Job done, Bucky clears the table, including Steve's empty BeetBerry Burst. 

 "You're full of something alright," Steve snorts. "Seriously though, thank you. For listening and sharing. I haven't really had anyone to - anyone I've  _wanted_ to talk to in a long time."

 "Well, you know where I am if you need an ear. Or a pastry." Bucky squeezes his shoulder as he passes by. Steve goes to snark back but Bucky butts in with, "Unless my 'nerdy little rants' about coffee are too much for you." He blushes furiously as Bucky laughs and flips the door sign into 'OPEN', letting the world into the little coffee shop once more.

 

*

 

The afternoon passes quickly for Steve. He's almost finished his book, and Bucky leans over to chatter in between customers. The steady stream of people coming in and out has gotten busier, and by the time Bucky's sister turns up to help at5pm the queue is almost to the door again so he barely sees him. He's fine with it for now; he feels at ease, knowing that after he leaves here and faces the music at the Tower he can take things a day at a time, accept the help they have for him. That restless feeling somewhere in his middle will never go away, but for the moment it accepts he has a plan to try to integrate into this new life of his and make the most of it. He can adapt and get through it, he always has. He just needed a little encouragement from someone truly unbiased and more concerned with the welfare of Steve Rogers than the image of Captain America, and Bucky has done just that. And if he's made his heart flutter and ears redden more than anyone Steve has met since Peggy, then that's just great - all it means so far is Steve now has a new favourite coffee shop to visit whenever he can find the time.

 Which makes the thought of having to go back to the Tower all the more unpleasant. He really doesn't want to go without having a way to stay in touch, but Steve doesn't know how things are done these days. He can't offer to write, asking for his address seems  _way_ too forward, and he would leave his number but he barely knows how to unlock the ridiculous little phone Tony gave him. He decides while he finishes off his latest drink (whipped condensed milk and egg yolks, coffee mixed in with a stirred topped with a little fluffy chicken which Bucky has called 'Hanoi Dessert Surprise') that he'll definitely come back. Bucky is utterly magnetic, and Steve wants to know more about him. Even the few short hours he's spent in his company have been the best since he woke up, and he wants there to be more.

 Steve stand up slowly, repositioning his cap firmly on his head, unlocking his sunglasses from his shirt. He makes his way to the counter, discreetly turning away from the tall blonde woman next to him making her order with Bucky's sister. Bucky looks up from the cup he's making up, his face visibly falling.

 "You're leaving?"

 "I have to, I'm sorry. I'm needed back... they'll be wondering where I am."

 Bucky puts down the large mug he's been filling up and rushes to get a paper cup. "At least let me make you one for the road -"

 "I couldn't possibly, you've been so kind -" Steve starts, but Bucky's sister interrupts with a smack to the back of Bucky's head.

 "If you're gonna get all goo-goo eyed, do it out the way of the queue you dope, I've got customers here!"

 "Jeez Becca, alright, alright!" Bucky grumbles, squeezing behind her and taking Steve by the arm, leading him to the far corner of the shop by another bookcase. "Listen, you don't owe me a thing. It gets lonely in here, no one stays long. And Becca...is Becca. You've done me a favour here, remember?" 

 "Oh!" Steve pulls out his notebook, tears out the page of reviews, and folds it neatly into a square  before tucking it into the pocket of Bucky's apron. "I think I've drank enough coffee to fuel me for a lifetime."

 "Possibly," Bucky laughs as he pats his pocket then sighs, pulling the band out of his hair and running his hand through it. It's glossy, brown, and brushes the back of his shoulders. Steve thinks he really is beautiful, but before he can get carried away on that train of though Bucky says, "Your number isn't on there by any chance, is it?"

 "Ah... I can't work my phone." Steve rushes to catch up with himself when Bucky narrows his eyes. "No, really! I told you, I'm useless with technology. Can barely work a landline. I'll be back here soon though."

 "I'd like that," Bucky says, almost shy. "Besides, we're the best artisanal coffee emporium in New York, you wouldn't get coffee like this anywhere else."

 "Or a barista like you, I'd bet." Steve smiles, and was that a blush blooming on Bucky's cheeks? "Thank you for today. I mean it, I'll be back."

 "Any time." Bucky says. There's a pause, a moment where the air is electric and Steve is beyond tempted to just lean across and snatch Bucky's lips in a kiss, to press his nose to the shell of his ear and ask him to follow him, to -

 "Bucky! If you're done smooching the customers will you get your ass back here and help?!" Becca yells over the chatter of customers, breaking their reverie. Steve rubs his neck as Bucky steps back with an annoyed huff, fidgeting with his sleeve. 

 "I gotta go. I'll see you soon though?" Bucky looks up, eyes searching Steve's.

 "As soon as I can, I promise." Steve says earnestly. Bucky seems to find what he's looking for, smirks and presses a quick, chaste kiss to Steve's lips before turning and striding back to the counter.

 "I'll take that as payment for the coffee!" He calls over his shoulder, and Steve laughs as he zips up his coat, shaking his head and smiling as he finally leaves the coffee shop. He glances back when he's crossing the street but he can't see Bucky for the boards over the windows. Above the door is a hand painted sign, which Steve hadn't noticed before he dove inside this morning on the verge of a panic attack - god, had that only been mere hours ago? - and in the same swooping lettering as the board inside, the sign proclaims the building to be home to "Bucky's Beans: Best Artisnal Coffee Emporium in NYC!" Steve tilts his head, letting out a little "Huh." - Bucky hadn't been kidding.

 He turns to walk down the street, grateful for the distinct lack of rubble and pieces of Chitauri that had been strewn over the road that morning, and heads home.

 

*

 

Bucky has his back to Becca and his customers, and when she joins him at the milk steamer his brow is knitted and he's chewing his lip. She knows he only chews his lip when he's distracted, and she can't really blame him. She nudges him with her elbow and mumbles so only he can hear.

 "You weren't kidding, that really was-"

 "Yep."

 "Is he g-"

 "Looks like it."

 "Are you gonna -"

 " _God_ , I want to. I really do. But what does he see in me?" Bucky groans, butting his head against the wall. "He spent all day in here, and we talked and he's so fucking nice. You should have seen his face when he came Becca, he looked like he was ready to burst into tears."

 "Do you think he knows they announced he's back?" She asks.

 "I don't think so. I knew who he was the minute he came through the door, so I kept the TV off. And he doesn't know how to work a phone because  _of course_ he doesn't, he's  _him_ , so I couldn't even get his number."

Becca grabs him and spins him around to face her and shakes him once, hard. "Hey, what the fuck -"

"You're clueless! Absolutely clueless! Go on, go after him! Idiot!"

 Bucky scrambles for his bag and his jacket, diving behind the counter once more to grab a few things before skidding out the door and down the street, while Becca calls after him one more time, " _Idiot_!"

 He looks both ways down the street, barely registering it's been cleared before he spies a familiar pair of broad shoulders about to turn right toward the subway and Bucky takes off after him.

"Steve!" He yells, waving his free hand while clutching the paper bag of supplies he grabbed on his way out. " _Steve!_ Wait up!"

 Steve turns, a look of confusion crossing his face before it breaks out into a huge smile. "Bucky?"

 He eventually catching up, heaving and panting. "I am nowhere near fit enough to keep up with those long legs of yours, so you're gonna have to give me a sec here," Bucky manages. He straightens up and reaches into the paper back to produce his gift. "Ta daaa."

Steve raises an eyebrow before taking the garish red, white and blue monstrosity of a cupcake gingerly from Bucky. "You chased me all this way...to give me a cake?" 

 "Yep." Bucky wheezes. "Not just any cake. Cupcakes are huge in the 21st century, and this is made with cream from -"

 "You  _know_?" Steve looks crestfallen, and Bucky waves it off with his paper bag.

 "Yeah, I knew from the moment I saw you and I don't care about Captain America. He ain't the guy I just spent a whole day with. Steve Rogers is. And that's who I chased after. Also, Captain America doesn't like sparkles..." he produces his glitter shaker and a sparkler from the bag, spreads them everywhere, and lights the sparkler while Steve bursts out laughing at the ridiculous view in front of him. "Steve Rogers does though."

 "Steve Rogers  _does_ hate sparkles," Steve grins. He pulls Bucky close, balancing the cake in the other hand. "But he likes pretty baristas who have more glitter than sense." 

 "Listen, I would kiss you, but I use a lot of product and that thing is dangerously close to igniting my hair."

 "Oh shit - sorry, hold on -"

 " _This is my art and it is dangerous!_ "

"What?! It's a cake!"

 "Pal, you'd better add Beetlejuice to that list of films because I swear -"

 

 They continue on bickering and laughing as they walk, long after the sparkler goes out.

 The cake, as Steve finds out the next morning, is delicious.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading and all of your kind comments on my last story! I still feel like an imposter for posting but knowing people are reading and enjoying what I write is a huge motivator!


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